


Animosity

by senorflamingos



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Arguing, Bottom Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Dom/sub Undertones, Hate Sex, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rough Sex, this is firmly on the enemy side of enemies to lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-17
Updated: 2020-08-17
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:53:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25912408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/senorflamingos/pseuds/senorflamingos
Summary: It wasn’t until Geralt looked down at his own index finger still in the air between them that he realised both that he had never touched Emhyr before, and that he had likely just committed a crime punishable by death.
Relationships: Emhyr var Emreis/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Comments: 22
Kudos: 238





	Animosity

**Author's Note:**

> i fully intend for this to be a series, but in case i never finish writing the next seven parts this works as a standalone
> 
> also why don't more people talk about witcher skin tingling??? it’s right there!!! it has limitless potential!!!
> 
> thank you to [tania](https://adamoparrish.tumblr.com/) for beta reading and general tomfoolery

When Geralt was finally summoned to see the emperor, he had already been at the royal palace for three weeks without seeing or hearing from Emhyr at all. His brief and often impersonal meetings with Ciri left him much too much time at the palace to swing his sword at dummies, drink wine and butcher conversations with Nilfgaardian nobles.

Geralt hadn’t expected Emhyr to be a worthy diversion in his time at the palace or even a diversion at all, but he had imagined that his presence would at least lead to some demand for his skill. Instead, he was left with dull conversation partners, too much wine and precious few meetings with the daughter he was there to support

By the time he finally had the chance to eat dinner with Ciri, he was crawling out of his skin and itching to _do_ something that wasn’t hitting a sack stuffed with straw. Before any of Ciri’s attendants, or guards, or subjects had time to spirit her away, he not-so-innocently mentioned a nekker contract a few miles outside the city and she also-not-so-innocently described a hidden passage through the palace wall, and by nightfall, they were riding out together towards the infested cave.

As he lined up back to back with Ciri in the middle of the cave, potions singing in his blood, he realised just how much he had missed the uncomplicated ways of witcher work. Had missed the instinctive rhythm he fell into with a sword in his hand and the practised ease in which he and Ciri spun around each other and quickly rid the place of nekkers.

Afterwards, Ciri looked flushed and happy, heedless of the blood streaking her face and the half-torn arm of her armour. She’d flashed Geralt a brilliant smile and leaned her head on his shoulder and he’d felt his mind settling for the first time in weeks.

-

An illicit excursion with the future empress turned out to be more than enough to evoke Emhyr’s ire, and his desire to see Geralt in person. When they made their way back into the palace, they were met with the infinitely disapproving face of Emhyr’s chamberlain and Ciri was promptly herded away by five attendants who all looked close to tears. Geralt was directed towards Emhyr’s office by Mererid’s pointed stare and saw little point in protesting, save to maybe prolong the high of adrenaline as Emhyr debated whether or not to hang him for the insult.

He was steered into a small side chamber with a washbasin and a change of clothes with strict instructions to make himself presentable. The clothes were, he noted sadly and with a pang of irritation, not from his own wardrobe, but probably tailored to fit him perfectly anyway. He once again briefly debated Emhyr’s willingness to have him executed as he considered foregoing the washing and changing altogether, but his need to get the grime and heavy armour off won out in the end.

The chamberlain did wrinkle his nose at him as he emerged, and Geralt was cheered by the idea that his appearance would still somehow be an insult to the emperor.

-

The emperor in question was seated behind his desk and didn’t even look up from his writing as Geralt entered.

Refusing to fidget, Geralt remained standing in the middle of the office, arms crossed until Emhyr put down his pen and raised his eyes to meet Geralt’s in a pointed glare.

“Do you have any idea how much you’ve hurt Cirilla by doing this?” Emhyr asked, his tone barely cold enough to conceal the fury.

“She needed it,” Geralt replied, tilting his chin up in a way he hoped displayed the right amount of arrogance and insolence.

Instead of replying, Emhyr gave Geralt a look that conveyed exactly what he thought of that line of reasoning and pushed himself up from his chair to stalk around his desk and closer to where Geralt was standing.

Geralt wondered briefly about Emhyr’s ability to appear larger than life, how he seemed to be looming, threatening, even sitting down, but particularly at full height, no matter that he fell short of Geralt by a few inches. He had seen first hand the way Emhyr could silence and frighten a room full of people with just a look, and resented the feeling that crawled up his back, not quite fear, but definitely not ease, even with the knowledge that Emhyr would be no match for him in an actual fight.

“If she never stops doing it she will never stop needing it,” Emhyr said, the words carefully enunciated and sharp-edged, as if that would somehow make Geralt agree.

“And how good of a job is she gonna do if she’s miserable the whole way?”

Emhyr gave him a look that clearly judged Geralt to be more of an idiot than he’d feared as if ruling half the continent could ever be a _pleasant_ task.

“Need I remind you she chose this? She chose me,” Emhyr replied, the jab landing like an icicle through Geralt’s chest, even if he refused to acknowledge it.

“You’re delusional if you think she chose you. She chose this because she wants to make the world a better place,” Geralt shot back, and if the angry flash of Emhyr’s eyes was anything to go by, he wasn’t entirely untouched by the attack. “And she deserves a break.”

Emhyr took a step closer, but his voice remained calm as he replied.

“In due time perhaps, but it will be impossible for her to make any difference if she is ridiculed and shunned by her own court for being a barbarian. Would you be able to fight monsters with both arms tied behind your back?”

As much as the truth of the statement resonated within him, Geralt refused to back down, remembering Ciri’s exhausted smiles in the days and weeks before the hunt, and the way the weight of her sword against her back had seemed to lift the weight of the empire off her shoulders for a few hours.

“I would rather die quickly with my hands behind my back than to be suffocated slowly in an imperial court by a man who pretends to care for me and not just power. She’s more like me than you think,” Geralt said, feeling viciously satisfied with the unwavering truth of _that_ statement.

Emhyr took a slow and deliberate breath through his nose.

“Believe me, I’m painfully aware,” he replied, sneering, as if to say, _finally_ , here we are at the root of the problem.

Raising an accusing finger in Emhyr’s direction, Geralt stepped closer as he rolled out what was probably his last line of defence.

“Don’t fool yourself into believing that I would even be here if you didn’t think I was needed, if you hadn’t agreed to let me into the palace, to let me sleep close to you and Ciri both,” Geralt said, poking Emhyr in the chest before barging on. “If I’m such an unalterable problem, then…” he trailed off as he noticed Emhyr’s lowered head, the slow tilt of it as he raised his eyes to look at Geralt again.

It wasn’t until Geralt looked down at his own index finger still in the air between them that he realised both that he had never touched Emhyr before, and that he had likely just committed a crime punishable by death.

By the time Geralt dragged his eyes back up to Emhyr’s face, any visual reaction he may have had was schooled back into the same sneer he’d been wearing the whole conversation, but his eyes blazed with what Geralt could only imagine was multiple scenarios where Geralt was violently executed.

If Geralt’s train of thought had been interrupted by his own aggressive finger, it was thoroughly wiped clean when Emhyr, instead of calling his guards or attempting to strangle Geralt with his bare hands, grabbed Geralt’s head and kissed him.

Emhyr kissed with the same brutal efficiency that he did everything else, and there was no kindness in the way he pressed closer and slipped his tongue between Geralt’s unresisting lips. The kiss felt like a continuation of their argument, an amalgamation of their inability to agree on anything and the frustration of being unable to deal with the other in any familiar way.

One of Emhyr’s hands tightening in Geralt’s hair yanked Geralt out of his thoughts and into the present, and he responded in kind by fisting the hand that was still trapped between them into the fabric of Emhyr’s doublet and kissing him back with every bit of restless desperation still clinging to him from the hunt.

Geralt felt their teeth knock together as he pushed back and Emhyr made an angry noise that Geralt more felt than heard as Emhyr pulled back, leaving just enough room for Geralt to gasp out a helpless moan and tip his head forward in search of more contact.

Emhyr rewarded him with another bruising kiss that left him light-headed, and he pulled at the fastenings of Emhyr’s clothes, only to have his hand pointedly guided away. The movement allowed Emhyr to tip his balance, making him stumble a step backwards.

Growling, Geralt pushed forward and bit at Emhyr’s lower lip, feeling self-satisfied by the way Emhyr’s hips bucked forward until Emhyr pulled away to scowl at him and he had to bite back a whine at the loss. “Fucking animal,” Emhyr muttered as he gave Geralt’s hair a short pull that sent a jolt down his spine.

After a long life of tumultuous relationships, Geralt was no stranger to anger in passion, but it was usually tinged with love, however misguided. Whatever Geralt felt now, as he was pushed backwards and somehow unable to put up much of a fight, it wasn’t love. It was burning anger and deep-seated resentment, stoked by their vehement disagreement regarding the one thing they had in common, boiled down into lust.

A few more steps, and the back of Geralt’s thighs hit Emhyr’s desk, and he thankfully had the presence of mind to not stumble this time, remaining stubbornly upright as Emhyr kept exploring his mouth in a less frantic, but no less forceful way.

Emhyr finally stepped away, releasing Geralt’s lips with a wet sound and looking at him with an intensity that made Geralt wonder at where all that attention normally resided, if not at the task in front of him.

Geralt felt raw, flayed open under that gaze, humming with electric energy that raced under his skin, making him desperate for _something_ , anything. He knew how addictive a witcher’s lips could be, had been told so on numerous occasions, and he could see it in the way lust and curiosity burned away some of the anger in Emhyr’s eyes.

Finally free of the vice grip around his head, Geralt leaned back against the desk, tipping his head back slightly and looking at Emhyr from underneath his eyelashes. He felt papers wrinkling underneath his hands and revelled in the way Emhyr’s eyes didn’t stray from his face until he let his knees fall apart, tilting his hips up with a slight movement that would’ve been imperceptible had Emhyr not been watching him with surgical attention.

“Strip.”

The command did nothing to calm Geralt’s racing heart, but his hands remained steady as he brought them up to loosen the fastenings of his doublet. He stripped without moving more than necessary from his reclining position on the desk, and while there was no outright teasing in his movements, he made sure to go slow and steady, his attention on the way Emhyr’s eyes followed his hands.

Seeing no need to preserve any false modesty, he soon straightened up from removing his breeches and watched the way Emhyr’s eyes flicked from his face, down to where his hard cock laid against his stomach, and back up.

“What now, Your Majesty?” Geralt drawled, barely managing to drag his lips into a mocking smirk before Emhyr moved forward to bodily haul him around to lie face down on the desk.

Geralt let himself be hauled, heat pooling in his gut from the way his cock pressed hard against the papers, ruining whatever correspondence Emhyr had been working on.

Emhyr dragged his hands across Geralt’s back, no doubt chasing the slight tingling sensation that Geralt knew he must be feeling, his hands nearly bordering on gentle before he seemed to gather himself enough to grip Geralt’s hips, dragging him closer to the edge of the desk.

Unable, or not quite willing to control himself, Geralt moaned, tilting his hips into the desk, and back into Emhyr’s hands, seeking the contact of both. He was rewarded by Emhyr’s hands tightening around his hips and the feeling of Emhyr’s clothed cock rubbing against his ass.

Geralt bit his lips to prevent himself from making any angry comments, or begging, or likely a combination of both, before he felt the full weight of Emhyr’s still clothed body lean across him to open a desk drawer and pull out a small vial of oil. As Emhyr leaned back, Geralt twisted his face around to raise an eyebrow and open his mouth but was stopped from making any comments as Emhyr poured some oil on his ass and shoved a finger inside him without preamble.

He barely allowed Geralt time to adjust before adding a second, and then a third finger, stretching him quickly and with so little care that Geralt thought for a wild second that it was a wonder he had decided to prepare him at all.

The rough drag of Emhyr’s fingers and the brush of his clothes against Geralt’s ass both served to remind Geralt how degrading the situation was, but he had lived far too long to deny himself pleasure where it was offered.

“Come the fuck on,” Geralt gritted out, entirely too soon, knowing that the stretch of a cock in his ass would hurt without more preparation, and chasing it with every instinct in his body.

“Careful, or I might leave you here, open and ready for anyone who might walk in,” Emhyr replied, pulling his fingers out of Geralt’s body. Ignoring the way his cock twitched at the idea, Geralt pushed his hips back into the hand that was still resting on his side.

“Didn’t peg you as a benevolent Emperor, willing to share his toys,” he said, feeling gratified by the way Emhyr’s hands went to the fastenings of his trousers with nothing but a sneer in his direction.

Emhyr pulled his cock out and applied the remainder of the oil before fucking into Geralt hard and fast, sheathing himself fully in five sharp thrusts, effectively cutting off any further comments and causing Geralt to jerk and clench down against the pain.

Without giving Geralt time to adjust, Emhyr started fucking into him at a pace that left Geralt no choice but to cling to the edge of the desk, gasping at the feeling of his nipples and the sensitive head of his cock rubbing down against the rough paper and wood beneath him.

The mix of pain and pleasure, and the adrenaline and anger from before had Geralt moaning into the desk before long, the feeling of Emhyr’s cock moving inside him bordering on too much and not enough at once.

One of Emhyr’s hands leaving his hip to drag his nails down his side, and an angry, half-whispered “god, fuck you,” from behind him was enough to push Geralt over the edge, his hips tilting forward in search of more contact as his cock jerked and he came untouched onto the desk beneath him.

He floated in the overstimulating pleasure, whimpering into his own forearm as Emhyr continued to fuck into his boneless body. Eventually, he felt Emhyr’s hips stutter and heard another muttered curse, as Emhyr released inside him, his hand gripping the back of Geralt’s neck and pushing down.

The weight on his hips and neck pushed his body more firmly against the desk and that, combined with the sensation of come trickling out of his ass when Emhyr shifted was enough for his cock to give a valiant twitch in an almost-parody of another orgasm and he moaned, helpless and low.

He felt Emhyr pause for a second, before pulling out and retreating to clean up and refasten his trousers.

“Be gone by the time I’m back, and if you can manage, avoid any butchering of Cirilla’s rule before it’s even begun,” Emhyr said, and before Geralt had time to gather his thoughts enough to reply, he heard the click of the door closing.

With a groan, he leaned his head back down on the desk and debated staying, to be found either by Emhyr, or someone else as threatened, but judging by the way paper stuck to his cock and his legs protested as he straightened out, he figured a bath would be better than pushing the limits of Emhyr’s ire. He pointedly did not think about what this meant, and how it would inevitably fuck up his perfectly peaceful life at court.


End file.
